SELF-IMPROVEMENT
Prisoner of Personality V
From Trauma to Triumph: Beyond the Boundaries of Affliction
IT WAS HIS MOTHER…
WHO SENT ME INTO A SUDDEN SPIRAL down into throat-clenching, eye-watering, nerve-racking panic. A shock I wasn’t prepared for. Not because it had never happened before, but because I thought it’d never happen again. I thought I was over it, that I’d conquered the PTSD that had developed because of my time with him. Sure, throughout the decade after I’d left him, I struggled with anxiety and paranoia, especially in future connections with other people. I didn’t know what to expect from new friends or partners-in-the-moment. I couldn’t determine which behaviors were normal or reasonable. And I was always worried I’d be trapped in a situation with another unbalanced, narcissistic, manipulating drug addict. Each intimate situation I found myself in was a lesson in how much of my personal power I had given away and how much of my true nature I had forgotten.
Now, I don’t mean to blame him for all of my lack of self-esteem and breakdown. I’d been building for the better part of two decades — since early adolescence. At the time, I was weighed down by trauma and years of undiagnosed and, therefore, unaddressed conditions. I was a mess, barely surviving, self-medicating, and self-loathing — low-hanging fruit anyone could walk up and eat right off the tree. Perfect for a devious opportunist. No, he wasn’t the primary cause. But he was the proverbial straw to the camel’s back. And he was a heavy straw. My association with him had exponentially increased the intensity of my conditions so that I lived in a constant state of panic, self-doubt and fear.
But I had dealt with all that, I thought. I’d gotten over the mind-fuckery of his gaslighting. You’re too sensitive… I’m only joking... I didn’t mean it that way… That’s not what happened. You’re remembering it wrong… It’s your fault I’m like this... If you just gave me what I needed, I’d be fine… I never thought about how he’d tell me he’d kill himself if I left him. The passive-aggressive comments meant to tear at my battered psyche were a thing of the past. I’d shaken off the memory of how he’d belittle me to take away my joy in something, to make me focus on his desires, to save face, to justify his mistakes in life, to make himself feel better or to feel validated. It no longer mattered that he’d say he wanted me to support his personal growth by pointing out his inferior behaviors, only to get angry when I said something. It didn’t matter that I’d overlook the very annoying, speaking up only when his behavior ranged from disturbing to dangerous; he was incapable of taking in anything negative about himself.
But I had gotten out. And over the years, I used the surgical lens of self-scrutiny to build myself back up. I’m not the vivacious, care-free self that I’d been in younger years. The toll I’ve paid has been hefty, indeed, and my recovery slow and arduous. Eventually, however, I came to a place of self-love and -appreciation. I understand and accept that my will to live and drive to express my truth are a force of nature that even the deepest, longest, darkest night of the soul hasn’t completely crushed.
I live on. I love on.
Or so I thought…
SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG…
JUST COMMENTED ON ONE OF MY POSTS that appeared in her feed. I’d forgotten she and I were still connected on social media because I’d stopped thinking about him; I had moved on. So when she showed up on my page, he showed up in my mind. And it went black, dark, like someone had turned off the lights while I was 100 feet in the air, tightrope walking on a rubber band, with my arms tied behind my back, over a pit of feral hogs and spikes. Absurd, yes. And very real, unexpected terror.
But why? After all this time, why should I respond so intensely? The weird thing is that it felt so random. It’s not as if I hadn’t thought about him at some point in the past without this reaction. I’d managed to sift through all the things I endured with him without falling apart before. So why, now, did I feel this way?
MEMORY AS AN EMOTION…
ONE OF THE THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN WITH PTSD is that you feel you are actually experiencing a traumatic situation — you are reliving it and can’t differentiate between present and past events in that moment. Another thing that can occur is, even if your mind knows that what it’s perceiving isn’t actually taking place, your being-systems are responding as if it is, as if the threat is real. Imagine being locked in a state of adrenaline-rich dread, knowing you’re not actually in danger, but unable to pull yourself out because your reason and will have been overridden by the frenzied trepidation in your body temple and emotional house.
The flesh remembers what the mind attempts to forget. It holds the energy and impact of experience, even when it seems you’ve “gotten over it”.
It was a simple, inconsequential reply. And all the abuse came flooding back into my core, throughout my nerves, my muscles, my gut, my hard-won, fragile confidence. I could again feel the permanent state of fight-or-flight that used to permeate my every now-moment while I was in relationship with him. There again was the rage at being imprisoned by his personality; at his vicious attacks on the truth; the outpouring of apologies and self-awareness one day, followed by a defiance of accountability the next; his constant self-sabotage that undermined my efforts and goal. I remembered my deep-seated lack of self-worth and discernment, the fear of saying “No!” to his intrusive, careless touch during his petrifying drug-induced psychosis. I became nauseated at the memory of how he’d lied about so much so many times to keep me from leaving his undeserving, sadistic self. Again I walked through our studio apartment that he’d taken a bat to. I saw the knife he’d run through the bed we had shared; its blade pierced the book about enabling I’d received from his mother. (It was her attempt to help me help her son.) I was pulled under by the exhaustion of having to deal with someone else’s insanity while overlooking my own needs, the shame of self-medicating — wallowing in my SEAs — so I could just get through each next-moment.
So much trauma. So much victimhood. It was a slap in the face to know I hadn’t actually healed or changed anything.
AND THEN IT WAS GONE…
THE MEMORY OF THE MEMORIES WAS THERE, but was no longer emotionally charged by them. I cautiously checked myself for any residual anxiety. There was none. Or rather, the anxiety that was left was not an excitement of the past or fear of it happening again; it was a concern that this would always be with me, waiting until I thought I’d made peace with it, only to rise up and remind me that I’d never be free, that it owned me forever. And what could I do against an unseen, uncontrollable force?
Over the next few months, I thought about my unexpected response to his mother’s comment after all the personal work I’d done over the last decade. Was I really going to let the fear of being afraid pull me back and undo all my progress?
I DECIDED IT’S OKAY…
THAT I’M NOT PERFECTLY “HEALED”. Everything I’ve been through has participated in designing the person I am today, for better or worse. But, today, I own who I am. Today, I am aware of what’s real and true. It’s fine that there may be times when I’m overrun with emotion at memories of the past. I’m allowed to own my authentic experience. I’m allowed to process at my own pace. I’m allowed to be vulnerable, even as I’m strengthening my will and power. And I’m allowed to have boundaries to protect my healing, blossoming self. I have the right to decide what I will and won’t accept in my life regardless of what others may think or feel. I get to protect myself. I get to respect myself as I am and the place I am on my path. No judgment. No apology. No b.s. And if someone doesn’t like it, they don’t deserve me. They can get out of my life. Or I can leave. I don’t have to be a prisoner of anyone’s personality ever again, not even my own. I don’t have to play the victim. I can take responsibility for the circumstances of my life and be accountable for my actions (or lack thereof) that lead me to where I am.
I get to evolve.
The past is a lesson. The future is uncertain. The present is the now-moment.
This is my now-moment. I have to live with it. So I get to choose how to live in it. And I’m okay with that.
See clearly. Walk honestly. Choose authentically. Journey wisely. Express unabashedly.
I appreciate you taking the time to read my work. This is a part of an ongoing series. Though the pieces share similar themes, can be read in chronological order, and link back to each other, they are also self-contained. Feel free to examine the other sections in whatever way works for you.
If you’re interested in something different, you can peruse my poetry and short stories on my profile and my personal publication, The All-Self.
